


11th Place

by Loolph



Series: Strike Team Delta [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, BAMF Phil Coulson, First Meetings, Guns, M/M, Military Training, POV Multiple, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, Shooting Range
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-01 03:58:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 7,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10180178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loolph/pseuds/Loolph
Summary: Is it possible that The World's Greatest Marksman missed something?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story can end here and be read as a stand alone text. But if you like, you can continue with those two in loosely linked sequel called [Very differently](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14657115/chapters/33861318). There's even someone new to play with, imagine that.

Clint was having a bad day. A bad day and even worst attitude. He had to get up so early in the morning, like 9 or something. To participate in this stupid exercise or training or evaluation, or whatever SHIELD called it. He was sulking into his 5th cup of coffee, strictly forbidden at a gun range. But no-one had comment on it or tried to reprimand him. No-one dared, being scowled at by icy green eyes, staring bloody murder above the brink of the cup. He had special circumstances, ok? On the fact, that it was a god forsaken hour and he had slept like, 15 minutes. He had been keeping his distance at the back of the group, sipping obnoxiously. Being surrounded by fresh, eager faces like this was a treat, not a goddamn joke unnerved him. His life sucked and he wanted to share his pain.

He might be 19, but he was The World's Greatest Marksman. He’d hit the bullseye every fucking time. Why was he supposed to be exercising on a shooting range? He was already spending hours shooting things, since the bullets and arrows were free. 4 hours a day, everyday, seven days a week. But was anybody counting? Had someone noticed? Clint didn't think so.

Also, what was it with SHIELD and training at the crack of dawn? Did they thought bad guys were early risers? That gun fights were a preplanned, morning thing, like a brunch, or something? Clint had been one for a long time. A bad guy, he means, and he never had been a goddamn early bird. Mornings were for pussies, unless watched by accident from the wrong side of things. It might’ve been sunrise, but the night was always young in Clint’s mind. Things to drink, people to fuck.

And to finish this FUBAR morning with a flourish slap to the face, there was a person performing the evaluation. Real life field agent. Original Man in Black. Ultimate everyday legend in a suit. Agent Phil Fucking Coulson. Clint couldn’t understand, what a big deal was? He’d checked, all right? The highest score the guy had ever had at the range, was 11th place. Out of few hundred of all, reasonably skilled SHIELD agents, Clint will grant him that, but still. 11th? What was he supposed to be teaching Clint here? How to keep faith in the face of adversity? Keep calm and carry on? Fuck that!


	2. Chapter 2

Phil was having a good day. For a relative value of good, obviously. It wasn’t Finding Vintage Captain America Card in Mint Condition good. But, life was decent. That op in Warsaw went well, all baby agents came back in one piece. Maybe hugging to their bruised egos a bit and developing heartfelt case of myxophobia, but it was almost a given in SHIELD job description. All and all, nothing that a few years of intensive therapy won’t cure. And Mr Chang from Phil’s dry cleaning place assured him, that his D&G suit was salvageable, which was always nice. He wrangled the mountain of paperwork from Holly Shit, I’m Never Going To See Daylight Again to This Will Cost Me A Kidney And a Piece of Liver, But I’ll Walk It Off. He even got to catch 15 minutes of sleep, which in retrospect might’ve been too little if he started to think in Capital Letters. But, still.

And now, the Test. One of Phil’s favorite. SHIELD’s Kobayashi - Maru, if you will. With a twist, of course. This was Fury’s company after all. Director’s mind wouldn’t stand for something as simple, as a pop culture reference. The test had layers upon hidden trap doors behind false walls of enigma. Nothing was as it appeared. The usual amount of bullshit in Phil’s book, but useful in the long run.

He skimmed through today’s selection of probies and sighed inwardly. Was he ever that young and naive, with a heart so clearly on his sleeve? Phil was 35 but sometimes, he felt like he was born in a suit under Fury’s scrutiny. Just as tired and sarcastic. Simply looking at them gave him all the information he would’ve ever needed. Their poker faces where as much effective as those of kittens. There was a crowd pleaser, a drama queen, a pessimist, a closeted egomaniac, a jock with a mind of a geek and hello…

A pair of green’s held his gaze fiercely and then threw daggers after Phil’s slow inspection was done. Well, that would be junior agent Clinton Francis Barton - Fury’s pet project. From the grudge held down in his stance and ostentatious laps at his coffee, Phil would rather classify him as an accident waiting to happen. Or bolt. Just the sheer amount of mixed feeling contained in that unsurprisingly non SHIELD standard issue tight purple T-shirt was painful to watch. And Phil had been assigned to uncoil it all, preferably so that no-one would get hurt. Oh, good, a challenge. This was going to be fun. For a relative value of fun, obviously.


	3. Chapter 3

“Good morning, junior agents,” a quiet voice cut through Clint’s jaw breaking yawn. He focused without making conscious effort, pulled by authority radiating from the man’s tone. How did he do that?

“Today we’ll be going through dynamic shooting range course.” Was it the suit?

“This will be your first KMT practical training.” Or was it the parade rest, that the suit couldn’t hide?

“In this instance, KMT stands for Kinetic Multi Target practice.” Clint tossed his head, annoyed.

Yeah, even he knew what KMT meant. And it wasn’t this bullshit, no sir. SHIELD geeks were using some Star Trek reference. That there was no way to pass this test. That you were destine to fail, like a messed up messiah. That it was rigged to break you. Well, many tried with Clint. Now they all were breaking six feet under.

Clint tuned out the rest of Coulson’s lecture by force of habit. Blah, blah, blah, shoot the bad guys, blah, don’t shoot the hostages, blah, blah, do it under a time frame, blah, don’t get killed. The usual. He even finished with “If you have any questions or require my assistance with anything, please, do not hesitate to ask. It won’t reflect negatively on your final score.” Unbelievable.

 

Phil smiled to himself. If Barton will do any more dramatic eye rolls, his sight might never be the same. He continued with his speech and saw, that he’d lost their attention. Truly, like kittens. They never listened. Always with the guns blazing attitude. Living fast, dying young and leaving handsome corpses behind might be fine and dandy in theory, but it led to more paperwork for Phil. Which was unacceptable. Time for some baiting.

“Junior Agent Barton. Would you be willing to go first?” his tone was unassuming, like an afterthought. The answering glare should’ve put two holes in Phil’s skull. But after Fury’s death stare? Phil barely raised an eyebrow. Really? Ok, then, let’s take this home.

“It is customary for the first participant to have another go after everybody else, if they ill perform. No judgement.” Phil went for the kill with little, encouraging smile. Hook, line and sinker. Barton nearly tripped, moving too fast to the beginning line and hanging a tracker on his chest. He still kept the coffee cup, though. Right.

“Do you know your mission’s objectives, junior agent Barton?” Phil asked patiently.

“Yes, sir.” Barton barked, oozing disdain.

“Which are?” And Phil started to get on Two Words Conversation Wagon. Damn.

“Shoot first, don’t be it in laser bullet tag, move your ass. Sir.” Again, with the face. If it stays that way, those ONS will become problematic for Barton, Phil thought.

“Any questions?” Phil gave him one last chance, but they never did listen.

“I’ll get back to you on that, sir.” Nice sarcasm there, Phil almost gave a shit.

“Ok, Barton,” Phil shrugged. “After you.”


	4. Chapter 4

Clint sprinted through laser beam point, starting the simulation. He’d put his coffee down, picked 2 magazines and had put them in his cargo’s pockets. He chose a gun without any thought, like it didn’t matter, clipped it, loaded the chamber, safety off and took his cup. He’d started pacing. First target, second. Quick progression of bullets followed any movement before him. Third and forth with a hostage, fifth target from above. Instant action and reaction. He took cover and tried to scan the next part of the path. He felt a buzz near his heart, indicating a hit. Damn it. No biggie, he had 2 more left before he was officially dead.

He took a quick sip of coffee just to annoy Coulson, following him like a shadow. He had to admit it, the man knew how to move. He seem to be glued to his peripheral vision, never too close and silent as a whisper. Clint almost forgot about him. He held the cup in his teeth to unclip the gun and check remaining bullets. 3 left. No good. Judging from the path, he will need more, so he should arrange next cover soon. He reloaded with a full clip and lapped from the cup.

“Having fun, sir?” Clint swallowed and gave the agent a cocky grin.

“For a relative value of fun, Barton, yes.” The agent’s face reminded bland but there was a twinkle in his eyes. What does that mean?

Clint jumped from his hide out and went through motions. Sixth, seventh and the eighth was again a hostage target. He zoned out taking his time, focused on breathing and footwork. Ninth and tenth targets were a little unexpected. Interesting. Then another buzz from the tracker. What?! Where did that came from? Eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth were almost too fast, even for his reflexes. He doubled over to the nearest hide out, gun empty when he felt the third, final buzz on his chest. Fuck. He loaded his final clip and went through the rest of the targets as quickly as he could, passing the finish line with a dramatic slide, having some nice time to spare. The lights around the course flickered, all targets dropped down for the inspection. Clint rose to his feet and looked around, uncertain.

“Thank you, junior agent Barton.” Coulson said, emerging from the background, taking lead as they meander through shoot out path backwards. “That was some good gun work, very impressive.” He noted his approval.

“Does that mean I’ve passed?” Clint asked hopefully.

“No, you’ve failed.” Coulson answered simply. “But you’ve placed 1st due to accuracy level.” 

“What does that even mean?!” Clint snarled.

“You’ve failed to complete your mission, junior agent Barton.” Agent’s tone was polite, aggravatingly so.

“How come?! I’ve shot everything you’ve laid on me!” Clint pointed around wildly.

“Yes, you did.” Again, with simple answer, like talking to a slow child.

“Then what?!” Clint scowled.

“You were shot three times. You died.” Very slow and badly behaving child.

“So what?!” Clint screw his face up even more.

“That wasn’t this mission’s objective. It’s unacceptable.” A child, clearly having a tantrum.

“I got killed, so what? Who cares?!” Clint was at his wits’ end.

“We care. SHIELD cares. I care.” Those few words were delivered like a final warning. Clint felt speechless for a second, thrown completely off balance. Coulson cared?

“This is bullshit!!!” He threw his half empty cup at the nearest wall in a fit of indignation, then stormed out of the range.

“This is procedure, junior agent Barton.” Coulson’s steady voice followed Clint to the door. “Now, who wants to go next?”


	5. Chapter 5

The time that followed, was one of the most bizarre in Phil’s professional life. He was completely taken aback with Barton’s ability as a sharp shooter and enraged with his lack of professionalism. Barton was unbelievably quick. All smooth, economical movements. Perfect situational awareness. Laser focus, completely unfazed by any circumstances at the range. He enjoyed himself, carefree and the most at ease with a gun in his hand as Phil had even seen him. And the things he could do with a gun? Phil double checked each and every one of the paper targets. All of them were hit dead center, precise like a surgeon with a scalpel. Even while holding a goddamn coffee. Unreal.

On the other hand, there was the reaction to the score. The yelling and posturing and making faces. Phil halfway expected him to drop on the floor kicking or holding his breath, going red on the face. Like Barton was 5, not 19. Like this was a kindergarten party and Clint’s balloon just popped. Like this was some punishment, cruel and unusual, weighing at his integrity and self worth. Like this was personal.

Still, Barton came back to the range and cleaned the coffee smudge from the wall, silent but fuming. The last person just finished her run at the path, unsuccessfully of course and the group dispersed, clapping each others backs and laughing their failure off. Barton came up to Phil having to move closer and wanting badly to stay back at the same time. It would’ve been hilarious, if it hadn’t been so awkward.

“Can I have another go, sir? As you’ve promised?” He asked quietly, contained rage but still sizzling at the seams.

“You can have as many tries, as you like, junior agent Barton.” Phil nodded at the range. “I remain at your disposal for any further assistance you might need.”

“I don’t need any at the moment.” Clint gritted his teeth. “But thank you, sir.” Well, ok then.

And Clint went. And again. And again. And again… His focus even more focused. His aim even more true. His reactions even faster. And he failed. Time, after time, after time. With each try Barton zoned out and withdrew more. And each time he declined any help. He seemed to be collapsing into himself. It was worrisome to watch. All that skill wasted on sheer stubbornness. Why wouldn’t he listen?

Phil was so troubled. Impressed and annoyed. Worked up and discoursed. The dualism of his feelings and opinions towards this particular junior agent made his head spin. He finally man up and admitted to himself, that the ride would alway be this wild, when it came down to Clint Barton, The World's Greatest Marksman. He never could be involved in anything easy. Just Phil’s luck, he guessed.


	6. Chapter 6

The time that followed had been the strangest in Clint’s life, like ever. Thanks to this failed KMT business he invented new, exiting ways to be annoying and unflushable for all of the senior agents. They couldn’t turn him down, if he came up to them with legitimate concerns. And questions. Lots and lots of questions. He even made notes. Agent May nearly poked his eye out with it, when he produced a pencil. Agent Cho hissed at the suggestion of his presence in R&D. Agent Hill eyed him suspiciously and had implemented truly paranoid login change procedures. And Agent Sitwell played deaf or stuffed his mouth with dangerous amount of food every time they’ve passed in cafeteria. Clint was having a time of his life.

It’s like he was making up the lost chances he had, when just being recruited by SHIELD. Now, all bets were off. For the first time ever, Clint felt hungry for knowledge. Like not only his muscles needed the growing. His vocabulary, his skill set, all improved. If SHIELD was teaching it, Clint had just learnt it, was petitioning for a spot in it or eagerly sat in the first row with a notebook or a recorder. It was like growing thicker in the head. Like he could be more than an illiterate carney. That it was only a mask to be shoved in people’s faces. And, boy, did he ever, Clint sniggered. Stupid Little Boy In a Big Hard SHIELD was his game.

He even requested a meeting with Director Fury, just for the heck of it. He was surprised, when his request panned out. But Fury was a stone cold bastard, ten moves ahead of everybody and didn’t gave a shit. Clint was granted 15 minutes. It was the best, most sarcastic dick measuring contest he had ever participated in his life. Even Nick Fury seemed to be enjoying himself, if the hints Clint had detected from under the eye patch, black leather coat and snark cloud of doom and competence were true. Clint had so much fun.

And the research. Oh, boy, did he ever researched. He researched the shit out of everything. The schematic of guns and buildings, the dossiers of any SHIELD agents that caught his interest and their evaluations, the exiting developments of equipment and those buried deep, hastily forgotten, the laws and regulations of theoretical training and practical courses. He was drinking it all up and eating the seconds, thank you.

And then there was the man in SHIELD he couldn’t get any read on. Fucking Coulson. Unmovable chip from Fury’s shaped block. Clint worked at railing him up every time they’ve met at the range, Clint trying to pass the Kobayashi-Maru, now just because. But, nope. No dice. The nerves that man had. All the rumors about him were true and then some. Coulson files were a read like a thriller novel. If they ever got unclassified, they could’ve become a good TV show. And when Clint said “Coulson’s files”, he meant their surprising lack of.

It was like SHIELD had a hole in the shape of Senior Special Agent Coulson, Philip J.. The only info you got, you had to put together from scraps and pieces of other people’s cases and files. Clint guessed, that it was a result of Coulson’s devotion to paperwork. He got to shuffle it, redact it and misplace it on purpose. It was like treasure hunt just for Clint, like a jigsaw puzzle. And the grand price would have been Coulson’s greatest secret. What was it with the KMT and Coulson’s 11th place?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, Phil could do with a little LESS help from his friends.


	7. Chapter 7

Phil's friends and coworkers didn’t help either. Apparently, he had created a monster.

“He came to my self defense class and Asked Questions, Phil.” Melinda May jabbed his hand with a chop stick to underline her displeasure. “Clint Barton wanted to Talk. To. Me.” She pointed at her stoic face and stabbed his forearm a couple of times, as for good measure. Unnecessary viciousness, in Phil’s opinion.

“What did he wanted to talk about?” Phil tried to move away any of his extended body parts. He was utterly unsuccessful, what with full cafeteria crowd.

“He wanted to know if I could recommend any exercises to improve reflex, Phil.” May’s tone of voice was unimpressed.

Coulson sighed. “That’s just…”

“Stupid? I know. The kid already moves like bad tempered cobra on Red Bull. You. Need. To. Do. Something.” The poking continued again and again while Phil just gave up and took it, quietly chewing his lunch. He looked thoughtfully across the full room at haunched up Barton, who oblivious to his surroundings stuck a nose down a thick book that looked suspiciously like SHIELD weaponry manual. He made a mental note to clear his calendar soon.

Barton’s second try at KMT. Even faster response time and tempo of movement. Second fail on all attempts. 1st place with time frame and accuracy. No questions asked.

***

“Good day, senior agent Coulson. This is agent Amadeus Cho from R&D department.” A matter of fact voice withdrew Phil out of paperwork induced coma with its crispness.

“Good afternoon, agent Cho. How may I be of help?” Phil sighed inwardly. He didn’t have any beef with R&D as far as he knew. Now what? A suspicion hit Phil. What did Barton do?

“Well, sir, I just wanted to confirm that you authorized junior agent Barton, Clinton F. to have a full access to any type of weapon he requested to use.” Dry tone spoke volume of agent Cho’s believe in such possibility.

It made Phil a little sad. How were the probies ever going to learn how to use anything if you didn’t let them near the equipment? The division’s counterargument was that it was dangerous equipment and sometimes even they didn’t know what things did and someone could get hurt. It was almost as old dilemma as time itself.

“Weapons like what, agent Cho? Please be specific.” Phil squeezed the bridge of his nose. 

Agent Cho inhaled in surprise but swiftly recovered with a list of weaponry from hell. 

“Yes, I confirm the authorization for all weapons you mentioned. Except the indoor use of grenade launcher. That is a little excessive for a KMT practise, don't you think?”

“Yes, sir. And what about the request of direct supervision from trained R&D personnel?” Wonder in agent’s Cho tone was clear as day.

“If it won’t directly affect your day to day duties, I approve. Will that be all, agent Cho?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Baffled agent Cho found comfort in military speak. Phil finished the conversation with usual pleasantries and emptied his schedule for the rest of the day.

Barton’s third try at KMT. Every gun, pistol, rifle and bow known to men used and reused. Some new improvements invented on the spot. R&D personnel breathless with adoration. Agent Cho unimpressed. Third fail on all attempts. Still 1st place with accuracy, a slight drop with time frame, dramatic increase in usage of projectiles and additional points for weaponry usage. Still no questions asked.

***


	8. Chapter 8

***

“Maria? Did Barton dropped by your desk lately?” Phil asked innocently, following his hunch. Why would Maria Hill of all people request schematics for all dynamic shooting range courses? When she just qualified with 89% score for this year?

“Yes, he popped by around my name’s day, actually.” Hill gave him a reserved smile.

“Congratulations? I didn’t know you celebrated that.” Phil’s eyebrows rose.

“I don’t.” Hill’s even look followed him around her room and desk.

“Did he, by any chance gave you anything?”

“Why, yes.” She pointed, raising a finger. “This potted plant. It’s called Tropic Mary Ann, apparently.” She smiled lightly. She did liked all green things. Her office was almost a jungle, with all the flowers. Unfortunately for them, she also had a black thumb. They were dying almost as fast as she bought new ones.

“Precisely it’s called Dieffenbachia.” Phil took the pot in his hand and studied it carefully. “And it’s bugged.” He tapped on a little black lens.

Impressive intel gathering technique on Barton’s part there. It was always easier to use preexisting data to log the system, than to hack from the scratch. Not to mention sheer quantity of regulations, laws and clearances he’d just broke by doing so.

“What?!” Hill jumped up from her spot and snatched the plant from Phil’s hand.

“He placed it above your keyboard himself, didn’t he?” Phil hid his smile.

“Son of a bitch!” Maria was beside herself with righteous indignation.

“You should change all your passwords, Hill.” Phil commented politely.

“Motherfu…” Phil walked away, smirking against himself, as Maria focused her wrath on sad, little plant.

Barton’s fourth try at KMT. Half of attempts were in walking pace, without firing single shot, almost zen like. Lots of looking around, as if Barton was comparing notes in his head. Half were dropped halfway through. Final attempt was identical with his first ever, to the very last parameter, even with the cup of coffee in hand. 1st place. Again, no questions asked. Phil just sighed. If Barton just talked to him.

***

“Coulson, this thing with Barton.” Nick Fury popped his head in his office door like a dark afterthought of menace.

“Yes, sir?” Phil rose behind his desk to his feet on instinct.

“Any progress?” Fury’s eye glared.

“Yes, sir.” Phil’s body found comfort in parade rest all by itself under that knowing look.

“Do you see the end of this childish bullshit stirring up trouble anytime soon?” Fury asked deceitfully gently.

“Yes, sir!” Phil went pale and swallowed. Fury just stared for a moment, silent and still.

“Good talk.” Fury turned on his hill and was gone. Phil collapsed into his chair. What was that about? He needed a drink. Luckily, so did Jasper Sitwell.

***

“Statistics, Phil!” Sitwell’s groan was muffled by a tabletop his face was currently lying on. “During my lunch break!”

Phil sighed into his whiskey. Even now, during their down time, after lots of drinks he had pretty good idea where this was leaking from. He had to clean up the mess he spilled, so to speak.

“Do I look like an analyst to you?” Sitwell asked, glanced at himself and quickly added. “Don’t answer that.” Phil nodded sympathetically. It’s not like he hadn’t ever been mistaken for an accountant himself. The job made a number on you like that.

“What was it that he bother you so much with?” Phil asked just for appearance’s sake. He saw the pattern mile away, even when he was loosing the plot a bit.

“He wanted to compare notes. On correlation between successful and failed courses. In connection with solo and team missions. Through last 5 years. In all SHIELD range exercises. All of them!” Sitwell whined, took a quick gulp of his shot and put his head down again.

“He had charts on his computer. Fucking pie charts, Phil!” Jasper thumped his head on wooden top a couple of times, which was over the top in Phil’s opinion, no pun intended. Also, pie…

All the bad jokes in his head were making Phil dizzy. Or was it too much booze? The KMT with Barton tomorrow was going to be brutal. For a relative value of… Oh, for fuck sakes.

But then the SNAFU Shenzhen op happened. And hangover was the last of Phil's worries.

 


	9. Chapter 9

It was a bad day for Phil and there wasn’t anything relative about it. He just got back to his office from the Shenzhen op. Supposed 12 hours walk in a park that turned into a week from hell. Damaged property on foreign soil. Covers blown. Agents KIA. Some MIA and for their sake, Phil sincerely hoped that it meant KIA, but they just haven’t found the bodies yet.

Phil knew, he was just a junior supervisor on this, shadowing Nick Fury. They were stationed a mile away from the mission’s critical site. When shit had hit the fan, they couldn’t get there fast enough to support. Sometimes 5 minutes was an eternity.

There wasn’t anything they could’ve done. Like circus performers that tripped, while juggling working chainsaws set on fire. Case in point of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Things just spiraled out of control. Bad intel. Bad timing. Bad luck. Like a mudslide. Like a shit storm.

The mission was deemed successful. SHIELD managed to stop the bad guys and took over the stolen shipment. High fives all around for greater good and the big picture. But agents lost their lives, so did their contact on the ground. That was unacceptable to Phil.

He needed to learn how to let it go, Fury said. That there was a thing worth forgoing your life for. That the agents on the ground knew it and chose how to go out. With a bang. That Phil beating himself up over this undermined their sacrifice. Well, tough. Phil lacked conviction about this concept just yet.

He couldn’t shake the silence after the last explosion out of his ears. Where, just a second ago, he heard his people on the comms, fighting for what was right. In the face of adversity. They kept their calm and carried on. To the last clip. To the last bullet. To the last grenade.

And in the end, just this silence remained. Thick, like tarp and just as difficult to get rid off.

After a debrief, Phil couldn’t stand a quiet of his office and went down to the cafeteria. To just hear people talk over his head about ordinary stuff. He heard general intake of collective breath when he entered the room and looked upon himself.

He forgot to change. Phil sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. It felt wrong. When he glanced at his fingers, they were smudged black and red. His suit has torn and covered with dust and smut. His white shirt splattered with crimson. Blood. Not his.

Fuck, he needed to get a grip.


	10. Chapter 10

SHIELD’s personnel was tough, even the cafeteria staff. Especially the cafeteria staff. They’ve seen worst. They’ve done worst.

Pain heals. Chicks dig scars. Glory lasts forever. That’s how Fury once summed it up, borrowing a quote from some football movie.

But they were also people. They didn’t blame. They understood. They knew, how to help. And now, one of them was hurting and needed just that. Man down. Time to team up, people.

Melinda May stood up from communal table, took his hand and gently lead Phil away to the locker room, talking all the way there about Barton’s annoying questions. How long can a person stand on one leg before it cramps? How often do you have to blink to get rid off an eyelash? Which was better for your spine - walking barefoot or running in heels?

“How do you think Barton comes up with this shit?” May was curious. Phil almost smiled.

After Phil stripped, showered and shaved, all on autopilot, he found Jasper Sitwell next to his locker and fresh change of SHIELD issued sweats and snickers. He stared at the mirror and seemed to be engulfed in a task of correcting his tie. And telling Phil a compelling tale of Barton’s analysis on the strangest of subjects. Muffin to pie ratio at cafeteria Friday’s lunch over last 50 weeks. A decrease in usage of pencils in correlation with bad batch of rubber erasers at HR and accounting division. The quality of air in the vent above women locker room against the one over men’s.

“Where does he get this kind of data from?” Sitwell wondered. Phil almost smiled.

He went back to the cafeteria and ate lunch with Maria Hill, listening absentmindedly to her complaining about her plants. That after Phil’d found Barton’s bug, she went through all the rest of her flowers to double check, just in case. But she didn’t dig up a thing. And she must’ve dry their roots out or something and her office was now filling up with dry leaves like it was early Autumn.

“It’s like because of Barton I was experiencing a catastrophic draught spell.” Hill pouted. Phil almost smiled.

He got back to his office to catch up on some paperwork and agent Cho was waiting for him. In person. With a cup of fresh coffee, just for Phil. With pre filled gun acquisition forms for Phil’s service weapon replacement. In three separate copies. While Phil was signing on color coded dotted lines, agent Cho proceeded with anecdotes about Barton’s more elaborate engineering ideas. That all seemed to work, despite all odds. Like sleeveless uniforms for archers. Like a grappling hook arrow tip. Or like a recoil free suppression system for that big gun Phil always wanted to use.

“He has a unique way of looking at the world, don’t you think?” Cho shook his head. Phil almost smiled.

And when agent Cho was leaving Phil’s office, he passed the junior agent in question at the door, exchanging quick head nods and unassuming smiles. Barton strolled in and stopped just outside Phil’s desk and peripheral vision.

Speak of the devil. Phil raised his head to greet Barton and froze, starring. His mind had skidded to un abrupt stop. He was not expecting that. How much hit can one guy stand for one day? Something deep inside of him clicked. Oh. Oh…

The devil indeed wore Prada. Or a bespoke suit, at least. Two piece suit. Which fitted him like a glove. Italian silk wool blend glove. Black with tiny silver pin stripes. And silver silk tie, which played up his pecs. And silver silk shirt, which hugged his ridiculous abs. The color combination made Clint’s eyes look like quicksilver sandstorm. Damn. Phil tried to compose himself. Was the wardrobe department actively trying to kill him?

There was nothing junior about a man standing before him. Clint was competent. Clint was dangerous. Clint was beautiful. Clint was… Clint. When did that happened?

He stood, patiently taking Phil’s open scrutiny with his hands in his slack’s pockets, jacket open. His cheeks were turning a little pink, but there was a smirk forming on his lips.

Phil blinked. And swallowed. And gave up. And finally, he smiled.


	11. Chapter 11

Clint knew about Phil’s bad day. He was concerned. He never got worried on other people’s behalf before. Especially senior agent’s. They were the people who got to boss him around. They should be carrying their own weight. But Phil never pulled rank on Clint.

Phil’s patient presence at his side at the range had a calming effect on Clint. Phil carried himself like he had all the time in the world. And all of it for Clint. Like things Clint did or think were important. Like he mattered. It made him zen in his head and had put an itch under his skin, all at the same time. Phil was always infuriatingly Just. Right. There. Out of Clint’s grasp.

And since when Coulson became Phil in his own head?

The Shenzhen disaster. Clint heard about it through SHIELD’s grapevine, it was hard not to. Details were crushing. Personnel was talking about Phil. About the toll the bad op took on him. About his unintentionally dramatic appearance when he entered the cafeteria. About how May, Sitwell and Hill herded on Phil to get his groove back. Even agent Cho played his part, since they’ve passed right in Phil’s office door, which was nice. But Clint wanted to check on Phil with his own eyes.

He just got back from his own undercover op, still in his costume. It was a nice suit, surprisingly comfortable. Clint appreciated the feel of expensive fabric on his skin.

He appreciated the look that Phil was giving him even more. Well, hello…

Phil also gave Clint a smile. First real one he had ever seen on the man. It changed his face, but not quite like Clint thought it would. It had added that missing piece to Clint’s puzzle, which was Agent Coulson. Phil’s smile was like, damn. It made Clint’s head swim a little. Did Phil knew what he was doing? Did he smiled like that on purpose?

“Talk to me, Barton.” Phil said. Like nothing happened. Like nothing was happening. Too late, man.

“I was wondering, if you could spare me a moment of your time, sir?” Clint asked innocently, going all in and upping the stakes.

Two can play at this game. And they’ve been playing at it for a while, clearly.

“What do you need me for, junior agent Barton?” Coulson said, just as innocently.

He was absentmindedly shuffling through papers at his desk, like the answer didn’t matter. As if. So, so too late.

“I need your assistance with the KMT, sir.” He took his kill shot. Bullseye.

Phil gave him that look again, even more intense than before. Clint didn’t know that that was physically possible. To feel so much and not act on it. Impressive self control. The nerves on that man. The things that man could teach Clint.

Phil shook out of it without moving a muscle, which, impressive. He stood up and stalked around his desk to stand next to Clint. Too close for comfort. And still not close enough, in Clint’s opinion. So he shifted. And froze.

Phil was wearing sweats. Clint had just registered it and swore inwardly at his observational skills. Or their lack of. And he was wearing a t-shirt. A very tight, very soft looking t-shirt. That stretched around his broad chest and strong biceps. There were edges of a tattoo picking out from under one of the sleeves. Oh, yes. The things Clint could do to all that skin. With his tongue.

Phil looked Clint over once more. From a close distance. Slowly. Deliberately taking his time. Taking everything in. Still not moving a muscle. Clint was speechless and glued to his spot. And the guy didn’t even do a thing. Being in the center of that focus made Clint’s skin prickle, like he was feeling an actual touch. He swayed a little on his feet, when Phil bowed his head near Clint’s ear.

“Let’s get going then, junior agent Barton.” Phil whispered after an eon, his warm breath caressing Clint’s neck. “I want to see what you got.” He took a step back, walking around Clint.

The amusement clearly present in Phil’s voice broke Clint out of his spell. The game was so not over. Things were only going to get better, if Clint had any say in it. And he liked saying a lot. His self preservation instincts were always low. More, please. As so were his inhibitions. I want to see, what’s behind that wall of self control. The thought made him giddy. He followed Phil out of his office, all the way to the range trying to collect his composure.

Fuck, he needed to get a hold on himself.


	12. Chapter 12

Barton’s fifteenth try at KMT. Two years after his first attempt.

He greeted the R&D people like old friends they were and flirted his way out of their help for today. They ate him and his excuses up with a smile. He was just that good. And he wanted Phil all to himself. In any way Phil would ever let him. The range cleared out and he locked the door, staring at the security panel.

“Do you know how to disable the security cameras in here, sir?” Clint asked, bluffing.

Phil simply punched in his code and the room went into closed off mode. Ok, then.

“Nice. Now, to the good part.” He took off his tie and jacket, tossing them aside and opened his collar. Phil stared. Clint gave him his designer cocky grin. Not yet, but damn.

He rolled up his sleeves while walking over to the R&D table. He hung the tracker over his head, chose two random guns, clipped them and ushered Phil in to the laser beam point that started the simulation. Here we go.

“I know where the bad guys are, sir. The ones I can see.” Clint said leisurely pointing at the track. No use pretending otherwise. “But it would be better for me, if I knew where they were, before I can even see them.” The obviousness of that statement made Clint a little apprehensive. But Phil didn’t laugh at him. No, Phil just nodded, looking at him pointedly. Assessing. Waiting. For what? Oh. Oh…

“Where are they, sir?” Clint asked simply.

The satisfaction that shone through Phil’s face made Clint’s toes curl in his dress shoes. Fuck, the man will be delicious to unravel. All that layers.

“I can talk you right through it, Barton.” Phil answered quietly. “Do you want a full scope now or target to target assessment in real time?”

“Both, sir.” Clint backed up against the post and listened while Phil talked. He wasn’t the only one who knew this track by heart, clearly. His uncertainty about next part was being quashed with every word Phil spoke. Clint knew he got this right.

But, still. If Phil knew so much, why the 11th place? Phil took even more attempts at this test, than Clint had ever had. Clint checked that too. Curious. So, so much layers. Phil finished.

“Thank you, sir.” Clint shook out of his reverie. “But I can’t get to the laser snipers by myself.” He said going for the jugular.

“I need you to spot me, sir.” He handed Phil one of his guns, grip first. “Lay cover for me. Please, sir?”

Phil delighted smile was blinding. Like a super nova. Like puppy’s reaction to a first snow. Like a white Christmas morning. Like a promise.

“After you, Barton.” He took the gun and stood at Clint’s side.

And they went. Side by side. Phil wasn’t just a silent shadow anymore. They’ve talked all the way through the course. About upcoming targets. About best tactics. Angles of approach. Snipers lines of sight. Timing and prioritizing the shots. Clint was afraid that it would be distracting as hell, but it wasn’t. This was Phil, after all.

He was Clint’s eyes and ears, multiple by infinity. It’s like he was in Clint’s head. He spotted for Clint. He covered Clint. He knew when to stay behind and when to advance even before Clint’s conscious decisions. They were in each others spaces so naturally, like they did this for ages, not the first time. Speaking of, Clint spaced out on that image for a while.

They crossed the finish line, with Clint’s tracker untouched. As per usual, the lights around the course changed and targets went down for the inspection.

Clint couldn’t believe how fast it went. And how much it meant to him. How much he wanted this. It was like few years and a blink of an eye for Clint, all in one. He was out of breath with it and he hoped that won’t be a last time around Phil. But next time, because of completely deferent reasons.


	13. Chapter 13

“Congratulations, agent Barton.” Phil spoke, motionless by his side. “You’re the first agent ever to successfully finish a Kinetic Multi Target practice reaching all of this mission’s objectives.”

“I can’t believe it’s that easy.” Clint stared at an empty gun in his hand.

“What is?” Phil was playing dumb, obviously. Nothing was ever simple with that man.

“The lesson to be learnt here.” Clint shook his head. He was being a stubborn ass for so long. He couldn’t believe Phil’s patience with him.

“The lesson?” Dumb and dumber, even. All right, Clint got it.

“No man is an island. You can’t do everything alone, because we care. SHIELD cares. You care.” He pointed an accusatory finger at Phil, who just raised an eyebrow.

“There is no I in team.” Phil's sarcasm was wielded like a weapon.

Another realization had hit Clint.

“You’re the one who came up with this bad lone gunman Kobayashi - Maru nonsense, aren’t you, Coulson?!” He gazed at Phil suspiciously.

“And what makes you think that, Barton?” The poker face from Fury’s book was back. But delight sizzled at the edges.

“I couldn’t find any mention of a name, when it came to designer of this course.” Clint frowned. “Just layers upon covers of redacted lines, misdirected files and straight out lies. I’ve wasted months, going through that shit, only to find I’ve sent myself on a wild goose chase.”

“I’m glad SHIELD had kept you occupied, Barton. Idle hands and all that. We do try to give our junior agents something fun to do.” Phil deadpanned.

“Fun? Oh, you must make Fury so proud, sir.” Clint glared.

“A guy’s got to try.” Phil raised his shoulders in a show of modesty. “The director likes his probies to be curious and alert. Always on their toes. A healthy dose of paranoia does not come naturally to some, you now.”

And just then, something else had came to Clint.

“And that’s what your goddamn permanent 11th place is for!!” He raised his hands, exasperated.

“Oh? I’m sure I don’t know what you mean?” Phil said innocently.

“It’s the highest score you can get here by yourself. Without getting killed.” Clint almost shouted out his frustration with himself. “And the highest place that isn’t on the board at the range for everybody to see. You have to look for it. Expressly. And I did that. For ages.” Stubborn ass that had a lot of blind spots. But this was in his past, Clint hoped.

“Is that so? I’m sure your giving my evil proclivities too much credit, Barton.” Phil just shrugged.

“The things I will do to your evil proclivities, sir.” The scorching look Clint gave him had fair amount of adoration.

“The things I will let you, Barton.” Phil just smiled.

 

Senior Agent Phillip J. Coulson liked his little 11th place plot. It took great amount of effort from Clinton Francis Barton, The World's Greatest Marksman to see it through.

Phil took it as a complement. That he made Clint work for it. And then some. Fury approved. And he didn’t even need to swear Clint into secrecy. The moment he got it, Clint went all in to be let in Phil’s KMT ruse. It had became their inside joke.

Maybe this thing between them will finish better than it started? Maybe this day and the ones that will follow will be good after all? For a relative value of good, obviously.

The End.


End file.
